The Fancy Feathered Hats of Love
by Espresso Yourself
Summary: Spain, in a moment of sadness, is drawn into his memories on the night of a conference in China. Hoping for some comfort, he confides his story to England.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: I find this to be an overused concept, but an interesting one. I could not resist. A multi-chapter historical story, based in Spain's height of power as a pirate. I may not finish this; God knows I lack the dedication to do so, but if I get enough reviews and I see that people do in fact enjoy it, I may get the motivation from you to continue. So, really, it's up to you. I won't know unless you tell me. Please excuse the title; I'm trying to find one that doesn't sound like a ridiculous teen paperback love novel and this was the best I could summon. While part of me wishes to request a better title from your creative minds, the other part is quite fond of what I have, misleading as it may be! On a final note, please enjoy the story!_

Spain's life began again with the clatter of metal against metal. He could not truly fathom the reason why, but the light sound of his silver fork dropping to the ground seemed an echo of his past power. Of course, every nation had moments of nostalgia; and as he shook it off, he was certain it was nothing more. And yet, the memory held him captive. Antonio was greatly wearied by it. The very words he chose to speak of it left a bitter taste in his mouth. One would never find him so regretful or angry until after they had spoken of it with him.

Spain's eyes darted around the busy Chinese conference room, searching for any object that could provide a temporary sanctuary from his maddening thoughts. He looked out the open window to the light-frosted lake; his tempest of emotions was not calmed. His eyes skimmed over the paintings and sculptures that adorned the walls. They would not do. Antonio observed the people; France and England were nearest to him. His bitter feelings were fueled by his friends. At last, he allowed the siren call of the moonlit pond to beckon him. Spain stood amidst the chaos of the world conference, a still rock in a sickening sea of ignorance, before walking briskly through the sliding doors at the side of the room. He shut the previously open doors behind him, in hopes that no one would follow and walked down the hall. Across from the branching hall to the right that lead to the bathroom were the doors that lead outside. He forced himself out of the dark hall and into the night, only half-closing the portal behind him.

Now that he was left in solitude with his thoughts, Antonio felt almost awkward. He looked up to the Pagoda roof then down to the floor, where wood was laid in neat rows. He stumbled forward on unsteady feet to the edge of the platform on which he stood. There was a simple yet fine railing in line with the edge of the roof. The architecture made Spain feel trapped in his mind. He plowed onward so to lean on the railing; and as he used it for support, he found that he was staring down, directly into the bottomless, watery grave of his memories. He had forgotten that this part of the back porch was suspended over the lake on China's property. He thought he heard the sound of the door he had exited the building from slide open; but as he glanced back to see what had caused the disturbance, Antonio remembered that he never closed them. Then from behind him he heard the doors slide open once more. He felt the trace of a blast of warm air, scented with musty sweat. He had forgotten that there was a door leading out to the porch from the meeting room. It closed once more and footsteps gradually grew in volume as someone came to stand beside Antonio.

"Quite the beautiful night, ain't it, old chap?" England commented mildly, a foot on the railing and a gaze looking to the dark horizon. A breeze stirred his blond hair; he looked content and optimistic. Spain was glad that Arthur had found peace while retaining his power, yet still, he envied him. "It's by far better than that hot meeting room," Arthur continued after a brief silence. "I didn't come out for air, however," he finally admitted, a bit red-faced when the Spaniard again refused to reply. "In truth, I just wanted to make sure you were all right." England looked at him, concerned. Spain felt a hand pat him lightly on the back, though he looked not away from the pond. "You seemed almost ill when you stood and said you needed some air." Antonio had not even been aware that he'd spoken; subconsciously he wondered if he'd made anyone else worry. It took them standing there awhile before Arthur's eyes flickered to the spot in the water where Spain stared obsessively with half-lidded eyes. The reflection of the moonlight and the water turned the barely visible slits of jade into sea green, like waves climbing upon the shore at night. The color glowed like phosphorescence; it was almost unnerving.

"Have you ever wished..." Spain began, his curiosity shadowed by regret, "that the old times had not ended?" His voice was tranquil, yet as the sound faded into the night, there was an edge that lacked harshness, like a smooth, weatherworn boulder peaking through a low-tide ocean. Antonio was weary; it seemed that he had privately experienced that emotion as well. England had not seen him in such a tired and dark mood; he wondered how Spain would cope. God knew the Brit fell into such phases himself - he usually drank it off. For when one had seen as much for as long as a nation has, they would understand how beaten they all truly were. And in a way, that was the problem; no one knew nor would they ever know. If they had sympathy from others aside from themselves, it would be easier, yet from birth, they were doomed to live such a solitary life. There was once a time it was not so; and to this time, Spain was referring.

"No, of course not." England's late reply was guarded and slow; he chose each word with care. As he seemed to gain confidence in himself, he went on, "How could anyone ever miss such a bloody, ruthless time? Citizens divided, raiding, killing, raping at will?" Each word stung Spain slightly, as the thought came to the conscious forefront of his mind that he was in fact being selfish. But still, it persisted.

"At least you remained powerful. I lost all my power. I watched my friends go beyond me and succeed - you and France are two of the five most powerful of us all. I was once, too. But it was taken from me. I am hardly even respected by you all now." Antonio tasted the bitter flavor in his mouth now; he could tell that Britain could feel it, as he shifted uncomfortably at the end. The silence lingered; England did not know what he could say as he had along with many others called Antonio such things as fool after his fall from power. At last he decided on the truth.

"Ah, bollocks, I miss it too." His shoulders shrugged in defeat. "We were freer then, weren't we?" He took to staring at the water, into his memories, like Spain.

"Sí," Antonio agreed, "we were. We focused on only defeating each other. We did not care about anything else - not even our citizens. It was easier to live with no regrets." There was much Spain rued about his time in power; the person he had been, the suffering that happened at his hand, and the empty promises made for the sake of it all. His hand snaked into his pocket and rubbed a small band. _Empty promises indeed,_ he remarked to himself silently.

"I never spoke with anyone about those times much. I know there's plenty I regret. I did not care enough for America in his early life, nor did I Canada. I often wonder, if I had stepped down, would things have been different in the end?" The sadness in Britain's voice was deep, though it did not seem so at first. It was rather like a small spill of water onto rocks that gradually built to become a waterfall of remorse. "Anything you wish you could take back?" He asked, fishing for a change in subject, which like a disease spread the sorrow to Spain.

"Sí," he muttered with a thick voice. He rubbed the band with his fingers before pulling it out and toying with it in the moonlight. It was worn and the gold had faded to silver over time, but to Spain, it looked the same as when he had first received it. England eyed it curiously, clearly wishing for Spain to continue. "I was bound to someone; I swore it was a truer love and passion than had ever existed before. I regret that it ever happened." He closed his hand around the ring delicately, shielding it from view. England left a moment of silence before asking,

"A human?" It was dangerous for a nation to love a mortal. It happened, however, and every time it did, the others wondered with sickening torment when it would happen to them. Spain spoke not and England knew he had his answer. "If you wish, you may talk about it; I know what you must have been feeling these past centuries." There was a deep chasm in his heart still from when his dearest Elizabeth left his world for the next. He felt that he had to assist the other man in any way he could; and in doing so he perhaps could aid himself. For a moment, there was none but silence; then a small plop sounded. Spain and England together watched ripples flow toward them. As each petite wave made their way in his direction, Spain felt nausea come upon him. It was a reminder, he knew, of the love he had tried and failed to forget. He no longer had the ring in his grasp; how could it be that without it, the pain in his heart had increased? He opened his mouth, convinced he was about to vomit, when instead words poured out.

_Translations:_

_Sí – Spanish – "Yes"_

_Thank you for reading, and again, if you enjoyed and wish for me to post more, please tell me so or I'm likely to not do it._


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note: I think I'm gonna take my time, writing this story. I'm worried about Spain acting out of character, which God knows I don't want. This story seems to be taking him in an odd direction. Perhaps once he comes across some friendlier faces, his personality will be more apparent? On a final note, please enjoy the story!_

Spain stared out the window of the fine stagecoach. All that could be heard was the forlorn sound of the horses' hooves upon the cobblestone road and the rolling wheels of the carriage behind it. To the ignorant eye, there was nothing to be seen for miles; to his own green ones, it was long, but familiar path. In the distance around him, the captain could see sand, grayed by the slow transition of dawn to morning. He knew from each clump of undergrowth, from each set of rushes, that he was to arrive at his solitary destination soon.

It was perhaps three minutes before the sound of his transport was interrupted by the noise of mighty waves breaking upon the shore of the sea. Soon thereafter, the driver brought the horses to a stop and opened the door for Spain with a bow.

"Sir Antonio, we have arrived," he announced uselessly; for the captain could easily tell from the horses' halt and his own memory that they had reached their destination.

"Sí," Antonio replied curtly in the native tongue, "I can see this. Wait for me here; I may be awhile." He began to make his way over the crest of the sand hill when a protest from his underling interrupted him. "Quiet," he snapped, cutting off the young man. "You are no one to say what I may or may not do. Now as I instructed; stay here." The noble Spaniard was now hurried at a trot; anything to get a long distance between himself and that pest of a servant.

Alone at last, Spain breathed deeply once, then twice to shake off the feelings of annoyance, for his routine here was sacrosanct, and that it ought to remain. The sand was loose and slid beneath his feet, causing the man the sensation of gliding to the sea as he made his way down the hill to meet the lapping waves of low-tide. Now in a secluded area, he removed his boots to better experience his surroundings. He swore he could feel each individual grain of sand as his toes sank downward. He roamed toward the line of driftwood and set foot into the suckling wet grit. The water was softly tugging him further until he stood knee-deep in the sea, drawing peace from its strength.

Antonio knew of course that the tide had a life of its own. He set his breathing to match its pace, then his heartbeat naturally followed suit. It was here that the brunette felt a divine connection and nowhere but here. He could not fathom how others felt such a beauty in the form of an elderly cathedral with its elderly tenants. Silently, he shook off his doubts and thoughts of such places and prayed,  
>"Dios, por favor, allow me to have an adventure unlike any other on this voyage." His fingers traced the permanent lines that had been drawn from his face to his chest, then to either shoulder. There were very few people on whom one could not see this mark; and it was that people whom Antonio was to seek.<p>

_Translations:_

_Sí – Spanish – "Yes"_

_Dios – Spanish – "God"_

_Por favor – Spanish – "Please"_

_Thank you for reading, and if you enjoyed and wish for me to post more, please tell me so or I'm likely to not do it. I kind of like encouragement! :)_


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's note: I'm still keeping tabs on Spain's character. This chapter took me a while to write. I'm certain that it is extremely easy to tell where I was struggling with my writing. The divide between forcing myself to write this chapter and finally getting around to a better part for me is apparent in the story. I'm so sorry for that! You can all look forward to finally seeing another canon character added to the story in this chapter. Also, please excuse some of the language I use in this chapter, especially around women. It's hard to stay true to the time period and be respectful to both sexes at the same time. Naturally, I selected staying true to time. Thank you very much for reading and please do enjoy!_

Spain dried his feet before putting on his boots. Every once and awhile he cast a longing glance back to the sea. He shook the empty feeling off him; he'd be home soon enough. He strolled back to the carriage, taking his salted time. The servant opened the door for him as expected and they started off to the city. The journey to the docks was mercifully quick; Antonio had worried he would not have the time to collect what he needed for the voyage. He called for the driver to stop and swung out of the carriage door on his own before evaporating into the mass of people going about their morning chores. He did not wish for his servant to follow him.

When he saw that he was not in fact being trailed, Antonio moved freely through the streets, the way parting for him like the Red Sea before Moses. The people cowered at his feet and dared not meet his eyes as he commandingly made his way to the swordsmith's shop. Occasionally, with wild eyes, a daring person would glance his way, thinking he could not see. He did not need to. Already, by an innate sense, he knew when his citizens watched him. He'd allow them to stare for but a moment before his scanning eyes swept over them, startling their eyes back to the ground, and then smugly continue on his way. At last, he found the shop that he had sought. He rapidly forgot the games he played with his commoners and crossed the busy street to the local blacksmith. The wooden door on its hinges screamed and a storm of rust shuddered off as it fell from the step and rested awkwardly on the one below. He stepped lightly down the stairs to the sunken smithy's workshop.

"¿Hola? Is anyone there?" he demanded into the dark and dusty room. At first, nothing sounded, but the squeal of hot metal on water proved that there was some existence in the seemingly abandoned place. A dark figure melted from the background and approached Antonio warily. True to his title, the blacksmith had dark olive skin and black, greasy locks that were singed at the edges. His hands were rough and scarred, each meaty finger curling within itself like a peasant before nobility. "Is it ready?" Antonio inquired hastily when the man said or did nothing but stand in the silence. Gruffly, he nodded, then tossed a set of heated pliers aside to free both hands for a large case. He lifted unceremoniously it and set it before the other with a dull thud on the table. Like a child with a new toy, Spain eagerly thrust open the box to see his order.

It was the epitome of perfection. Crafted of a dark silver, the axe gave off what was like a devil-like black shine. He lifted it from the velvet case with wonder in his eyes, then allowed it to rest at his side, at a relaxed position. When held up from the ground, the weapon was but a bit higher than Antonio's waist, as he liked it, and when he swung it through the air, it sliced through like a feather. While perhaps not as well balanced in his hand as his cutlass, he preferred the axe without a doubt. He set it back on the protection of the plush velvet, then examined the blade further. At last, he allowed a smirk to be plastered upon his face.

"Perfect," he murmured to the blacksmith, "the crack is completely repaired. It has been reinforced as well, as I requested?" The man nodded, then held out his hand. Still in admiration of the axe, Antonio dropped a worn leather bag of pesetas as payment. He absently took it once more from the case and made his way out the back of the shop to the less-used streets, the axe seemingly swaying in the breeze.

He continued his stroll through the back roads long into the day, experimenting with the blade he now wielded. It did not sing as sword when sailing through the air; rather, it was silent, like the death it would no doubt bring. Where it connected to its handle, there were ornate designs and three rubies that had been supplied by he himself, from the loot he had last gathered with his crew. The steel it was constructed from held no scent save for the metallic tang; it would only pick up the salt smell after it had been out at sea. His eyes swept once more over the location where once the crack had been. A subdued anger seeped into Antonio's core as he recalled what had happened. The axe, of course, had always been his preferred weapon, ever since he first stole it off an island toward the north. Its original, smaller size had made it more difficult to locate in the shadows of the moonlit plants the night it was found. In fact, the brunette had only first noticed it after taking a fall over a stray root during a sprint away from danger. Upon picking it up, it was apparent that it was old, but not so much that it was archaic. It had many nicks and scratches and the blade was seemingly blunt; it felt unnatural and unbalanced in his hand. He used it to help him stand, then saw that the handle was only perhaps as long as his arm, whereas the typical sword was about the length of his leg and his dagger, the length of his forearm. Keeping his enemies an arm's length away while they could reach a leg's length would hinder him significantly; with any normal human, one misstep would mean death. For the nation, it would mean a great deal of pain and having to act as if he were lifeless. Consequently, he would miss the ship to take him home. If, somehow, he did reach his homeland again, it would be disastrous to come across his shipmates who would be under the impression that we were dead. All in all, Antonio could not see how it might assist him against his pursuers, but it was made with the intention of harming and that was enough at the moment. He stepped lightly behind the trunk of a tree, the road to his left and seemingly endless forestry to his right. He allowed his eyelids to shut as if he were merely taking a nap against the curve of the trunk and readjusted his sweaty grip on the aged weapon. As the sound of the rushing footsteps came closer, his heart rate grew louder as well. At last, when the obstreperous swords could be heard smacking against their owners' hilts and the labored breathing of a man who carried too much could be heard beside him, Antonio swung the blade from where he grounded himself. The force of the impact was carried up through his arm, past his jaw, and straight to his brow. A crack as dull as the axe's blade seeped like an elderly man's dying breath into the air and the smell of light blood from a ruptured artery heavied the atmosphere. For an instant, aside from the sound of the gruesome red fountain, there was silence; and into this weighted quiet Antonio stepped. His stance was aggressive and gave a harsh tug on the handle of the weapon, so to ready his weapon for an attack and give off a threatening air. It was a horrifying moment when the axe refused to come out from where it was buried at an upward angle in the standing corpse's collarbone and throat, but alas, with one more pull, the weapon slid out from its sheath and the body collapsed in the opposite direction. Antonio recognized the dead man as the first mate; the second as one of the disposable crewmembers; and the third, a boy, no older than fourteen. The sailor's anger was betrayed by easily by his far more apparent fear and the boy had fallen back and pissed himself. He was trembling far too much to lift himself from the ground in any form of defense. Antonio moved not; the mutinous, clever crewman whirled took off back the way he came as soon as the brunette did nothing, but the boy was frozen where he lay in a nightmare's stance, transfixed by the omnipotent pendulum of the axe. His mud-colored eyes were large and round like a nameless creature crawling upon all fours. It would be far better to silence the senseless boy, Antonio thought, than allow him to live. He had nothing to become, except a slave to crewmembers, who were slaves to the captain themselves. The brunette took a step closer to the immobile black child, who in return did nothing. Again, he tightened his grip on the axe, in preparation for the kill. Power had soaked up into the dull blade with the blood and he had the perfect opportunity to exercise it. Yet as he raised it, his eyes locked with the child's, and a new thought danced through his mind. He would not kill the black, he decided as his arm lowered; rather, keep him alive and knowing that he'd always be at Antonio's mercy. The axe had suddenly become lighter in his arms and he glanced down at it. Like a siren, it called to him; this would be the weapon to replace the useless old dagger of his.

He used it as it was until that particular voyage ended. When he next returned home, Spain had taken it to a cheaper smithy and had a cast of low quality but easily sharpened metal melted around it. He had been very pleased with it at the time; the axe was sharper, the hideous scratched surface was hidden beneath a shiny new one, and the overall blade was larger from its reinforcement. While heavier than he was accustomed to on one end, it was not difficult to get used to the new weight, for he practiced with it often. It was a shame he went through so many crewmen and so quickly. For a span of perhaps two to three years, the repaired axe worked wonders for Spain. He had a reputation for violence on his every whim and his two main enemies acknowledged him as a formidable foe. This, however, is what worked against him. A battle between all three adversaries at once had commenced; a planned battle, nonetheless. The other two captains had plotted against Antonio and declared an alliance, which, admittedly, was quickly broken. The axe had assisted him against them in the past, but he had never taken on both enemies simultaneously. As the war raged on around them, the two kept up relentless attacks on Antonio, leaving him to defense. The weapon cried in his hands, far more used to the role of attack. At last, a final blow was executed by the shorter of the two, and the cheap metal surrounding the original axe snapped, leaving its surface shattered.

The loss that day had been a devastating one for Spain, though more due to his ego and damaged weapon than loss of actual life. Underneath the crumbling metal's surface, one nick that had been particularly bad from the beginning had deepened, forming a crevice in the original weapon. Soon thereafter, Antonio and his crew returned to their homeland for a month, in order to recruit new sailors and supplies and to have the battle-axe repaired.

That month had drawn to a close and a new voyage would begin the next day. Antonio had lost track of time and forgotten to rein in his memories, as he did easily, and was surprised to see that the sun was already sinking along the horizon. He would be late for his appointment. Thankfully, the man knew his whereabouts, and knew he was close. He turned right at the next point, then trotted straight down the back alley until the clamor of the main road could be heard. After turning and following the busy road, the din of drunken laughter from both men and women could be heard under the ringing of church bells and the clatter of hooves on cobblestone. It was the unmistakable sound of a brothel.

Maria's Bar, Brothel, and Inn, it was called. It was Antonio's preferred place for a drink and a cheap place to spend the night before a sail, despite the somewhat blasphemous name. It mattered to Spain not; for, the woman who founded and ran the brothel could not help being named after the Holy Mother. He stepped in and to the side of the room. The laughter was now more prominent, as was the stench of human sweat, fluids, and ale. Spain leaned against the wall and hastily edged his way past the masses of people. He paused for a quick breath at the bar, then snagged the only unoccupied stool. There then sounded a more thorough, rowdy laugh than all the others and Antonio glanced over the counter just in time to catch a beer sliding his way. The laugh belonged to the heavyset barman, who may not have known Antonio well as a person, but recognized him and knew his favorite drink, which was sufficient for Spain.

"Haven't seen you in a while," he shouted to the brunette over the voices of all the miscreants. His accent differed from that of most Spaniards. He hardly pronounced 'S' and 'D' sounds and consequently, his patrons had trouble understanding him. Antonio, however, recognized it as the southern accent from Andalucía. He thought he recalled the bartender saying that he was from Sevilla once, in a chat long ago. Immediately switching his accent from that of a regular one to an Andalucían one, he replied,

"Ah, I have been well!" He closed his green eyes and took a swig of his beer. "Trade's been on the rise, which provides a multitude of opportunities for me," he continued, quite smug. He fleetingly imagined what he'd do when he got his hands on his enemies, then shook it off, preferring to be surprised by their reactions when they saw his new axe. "You? How's business been?" he questioned the other good-naturedly.

"Bueno," he replied, pride shining in his dark brown eyes. He'd helped Maria build the bar from the ground up and treated it like his child, as he had none that he knew of. "Yet," he dragged on with a peculiar tone, as if some fly were pestering him, "I've had an off-seeming patron recently." His eyes wandered off in a daze, before settling to observe a cobweb in the front corner of the bar, near the door. Curious, Antonio pressed him further.

"Oh? Just a foreigner that has one too many or something more?" The barman shifted his weight toward him slightly, then turned his head, and then his eyes, so that he was facing Spain fully.

"Yes, a foreigner. But she's been completely sober. From what I could see, pretty. She kept asking for you, actually. Been hanging around here these past couple days. She knows who you are," he cautioned the other. "Asked for Captain Hernández Carriedo." Alarmed, Spain met his eyes.

"What did you do?" he demanded of the bartender. His eyes flickered to the stairs that led to where the upper levels of the inn were, on the other side of the brothel. The foolish man confirmed his fears.

"Told her where your room is. Let her wait there for you." It was less than a second that the words had escaped the man's mouth when he stood, knocking the chair over, and shoved past the criminals, harlots, and hard workers alike, his eyes locked on the staircase that led above. As soon as he broke free from the drunken bodies, he dashed up the first flight of stairs, then the second. He tightened his grip on the axe as he'd done many years prior, though this time with the confidence of a practiced hand. It was near silent on this level; from directly below him, he could hear the sounds of the moaning prostitutes and their customers, and from farther below, the festivities of the intoxicated. The door on the end of the hall and to the right was the room he usually had when staying at the inn overnight. He approached it as stealthily as he could and when he at last reached the door, as he was turning to face it and his axe was in a striking position, his foot hit a floorboard and caused it to squeal under his weight. The wooden door nearly flew off of its hinges as it swung open swiftly, then hit the wall with what seemed a boom of thunder, and came to a shuddering halt there. A man that was clearly in an ill mood stood before Antonio. His dark brows were creased above his forehead and he bore no smile. He was, however, a familiar face to the Spaniard.

"Get in," snapped his first mate, Mamello, irritably, "and put that down." He gestured to the axe, then stepped aside, letting Antonio pass. The door let out a metallic clang as the brass lock slammed shut behind him. The room was dimly lit and it was hard to see, but Spain knew exactly what was in it. A single bed was at the wall opposite the door, next to a window that overlooked the main street, then the docks. There was a trunk at the foot of the bed, for storing whatever might be needed; in Antonio's case, it was used for his alternate wardrobe. Aligned against the wall left to the door was a chair and a writing table that usually had a candle in a brass stand; this was the only source of light in the room for the time being, as the curtains over the window were drawn shut. A hooded figure occupied the chair beside the desk. From the looks of the person's body and the information received before, Spain gathered that this was the woman sent up to his room by the bartender.

"Mamello," he addressed his crewmember almost icily, "who is this?" She tapped her foot, as if drawing attention to the fact that she was present and it was unnecessary to refer to her as though she were not there. He could not see underneath her hood; if she was a creature of beauty as the barman had stated, perhaps the man had just wanted his way with her before turning her away. He glanced at the exotic man for a moment. His tawny eyes darted from side to side and his dark brows furrowed together.

"I... don't know," he iterated, nowhere nearly as self-assured as he'd been a moment ago. Her foot tapped louder against the ground, in an attempt to suck the attention her way.

"Then why is she here?" he interrogated, raising his voice slightly. He received the same the reply from the African man. There was a harsh sound of wood scraping against wood as she rose from her seat, allowing her hood and cape to be cast aside. She was in no way how Spain had seen her in his mind's eye. She was not youthful and beautiful with a maiden's blush, but haggard with red-blotchy cheeks of anger. Her pale skin was dry and folded in on itself like a pile of ashes. Half-blind rocky eyes stared at him relentlessly in the most unnerving way. She was quite the ugly woman, yet she had one redeeming quality; her long, golden hair was akin to that of a field of summer wheat, the rarest color for the region Antonio inhabited. Her one virtue could have substituted for her many vices had she only managed a thin smile as opposed to a hideous scowl and a harsh tone to match when she spoke to the captain.

"I need your help," she said in the broken fragments of Spanish. She had a thick accent that Spain had never before heard. Rather than at the forefront of the mouth, her voice came from the center, or perhaps the back, of her pallet. He could barely decipher her words and knew not how he could, but he then realized that her accent was somewhat similar to that of a friend's. "I am old," the woman continued, "and all my sons have found good jobs as hard workers, except one. Allow him to be part of your crew." She did not beg; her tone seemed, instead, authoritative. His eyebrow rose to an arch and his mouth had made a small 'o', as if he spoke a silent question.

"And what skills does your son possess?" he inquired, considering carefully what was laid out before him. The poor woman need not know that the crewmembers, aside from the first mate whose position was filled by a trustworthy man already, were virtually slaves, what with little pay and the certainty that they'd eventually be taken from their crew as a prisoner and shouldered over to another man's ship. There was little guarantee that they would ever see their home again. The old woman answered:

"He pays good attention to detail. Artistic fellow, with his father's charm and my good looks. Used to spar with his brother, but usually lost. Brother was a cheater, he was. He's tall, too." By the time she finished the rehearsed monologue of a doting mother, both Spain and Mamello were near tears with their uproarious laughter.

"Come, woman," Antonio breathed between the paroxysm of chuckles, "surely you know my occupation? Cheating is the only rule of battle on the seas. This attention you speak of is easily found, but only used when someone is needed to climb up the crow's nest." She tried to get a word in edgewise, but he plowed over her objections like the high tide over the brittle sand. "Not to mention, a spyglass is easily found. And artistic? Useless. Not to mention, his appearance the way you describe it. A tall, pale man, virtually albino? He would be far too easily spotted." She attempted breaking through his continuous stream of criticism once more, but he was relentless. He put a finger up to signal for her silence. "To conclude," he said, the laughter now dead in the air, "if he wanted a job, he would do well to come request it of me himself, rather than sending his coddling bitch of a mother. If he has no bravery, then he is certain to die." With his raised hand, Antonio made a shooing gesture as one might signal to a pesky animal and turned his back. All he heard from that point was the opening and infuriated slam of the door. The old hag had left in a rage. "Good riddance," the captain commented to his grinning accomplice. In return he received a self-satisfied nod, then he bent at the waist as a sign of respect and announced:

"I am going to my room now, for some sleep before we leave tomorrow. Goodnight, sir." Antonio acknowledged the black man, but made no noise. The door closed more delicately this time and left Antonio isolated. He slid out of his overdone and fancy attire, leaving him in only his breeches, hose, and shirt. Aimlessly, he wandered to the window and peeked through the cotton curtains to the city below. No longer was it busy, save for a handful of drunks stumbling out of the alehouses and making their way home and the occasional pony and cart. Once as watched, Antonio thought he spotted a noble's carriage, but he saw that he was mistaken when it turned the corner by a lit store. That foolish woman had nearly panicked him, but he recognized that he ought to forget about the incident; for it no longer was of any importance to him what became of her or her seemingly useless son. Over the husks of loud chuckles from alcoholics, the trotting of a horse's hooves, and through the distorted glass of the closed window, Spain was convinced that he could hear the ever-soothing beckon of the sea.

_Translations:_

_Bueno – Spanish – "Good"_

_Thanks so much for reading! I really appreciate the encouragement you've given me so far and the patience you have had while awaiting this chapter. I am really sorry this took so long! Any guesses to which canon character Mamello might be? If you figure it out and have a better name, I'd appreciate hearing it. And a note on Mamello's name. This story, while written in English, has the characters speaking Spanish the whole time. In Spanish, when there is an 'll' like that, it would change the pronunciation of the name to "Mameyo". For my purposes, I'm keeping his name spelled as "Mamello", but Spain is pronouncing the name as "Mamelo", true to its original sound. Thank you so much!_


	4. Chapter 4

After a long while of gazing wistfully at his sea, the captain decided that it was best if he just slept the time off before rejoining with his love. He tore himself away from the window, but could not bear the thought of closing the shades. It would be like barricading him from the ocean forever. Of course, the very notion was ridiculous; one way or another, he would always return. He opened the trunk at the foot of his bed slowly, the pads of his fingers absorbing the feel of the worn yet supple leather straps. The wood planks it was constructed from were well rounded and smooth; it was driftwood, perhaps from the very bay Antonio had visited prior to his arrival in town. The occasions on which the case was opened were few and far between - for it was usually only the brunette that used this room - and accordingly, the faint perfume of the brine was still present. Spain inhaled the scent and allowed it to fill his lungs, his diaphragm, and his whole being all at once. In their dreams, the nation was sure, his citizens were about the open ocean, whether it was the fantasy of a blooming lady meeting a lost sailor on the shore and falling into a passionate love or an elderly fisherman picturing the days when he was able to provide for his family. So deep was his love for the sea; that with a breath, the very people he was could for but a fleeting moment feel what he did.

Antonio's hand snaked into the trunk, feeling for his robe. He could no longer see; what little moonlight there was did not trickle so far into the room and the sole candle had long since burned out. He was almost disappointed when at last he felt the cotton tunic. He was hesitant to close his only portal to his home. Antonio cursed himself for his cowardly feelings, stood from where he crouched, and consequently dropped the lid abruptly. The sound imploded into the space and left the tired man standing there for a long while. Peculiar how a noise of such high volume could only make a lonely room quieter in the end. Spain stripped himself in the prison while his jail keeper by the name of loneliness stared him down with violent, fiery eyes. He was no more comfortable wearing his sleep tunic than he was unclothed. Unable to make himself open the chest once more, he left his clothes strewn about the room.

His sleep that night was an uneasy one, as they seem to always be when one wishes for slumber to come. When he awoke, his entire body was covered in perspiration, no doubt from a nightmare he could not recall. The early sun was barely able to permeate the room, whose air now felt more solid than anything else. Antonio peeled the cotton gown off of himself quickly, then opened the trunk unceremoniously for his better wardrobe. Now in more of a rush, he threw on his thick brown hose; they had once been ivory in color, but years of careless cleaning and bloodstain had erased their previous shade. Then he tossed on his billowing, cream chemise and dark breeches over. He rummaged through the trunk once more; this time, he brought out a leather belt and red sash. He wove the two about each other, then tied them around the lower half of his torso. At last, for his final touches, he added his crimson coat that was lined with gold and cut off at the knee and a hat with a colorful feather. He put on his boots and snatched his axe, then stumbled out of the room, still in a bit of a sleep-sprinkled daze.

"You are late," Mamello castigated as Antonio shut the door behind him. His whole attire was dark, save for his yellowing blouse that was covered mostly by his own green coat. The man stood tall; like wandering in a forest night, one could not help but be aware of him. He was the invisible creature whose home was intruded; and it was impossible to tell is this animal was to attack or merely watch and analyze. Alert like a warhorse, it was apparent that he was no man to be crossed. His demeanor, however, was undermined by his dark skin and textured, cropped hair.

"Nonsense," Antonio countered. "You are simply too eager to go earlier than necessary." It was clear that he was being hypocritical, but graciously as possible, the first mate bowed his head, then fell in place behind the captain's right side as he strode down the corridors and stairways confidently. When the pair got to the ground level of the brothel, they went straight to the counter where the drowsy bartender was wiping away the evidence of the previous night's festivities.

"Buenos días," Spain greeted the hearty man politely. The man could not reply any more than a broad grin before Antonio tossed a bag of pesetas over to him. "For your troubles of keeping my room unused." The man appeared as if would protest, then the other flipped a coin from his pocket with a chuckle and added, "And for the beer from last night." He whirled out of the inn quickly, desiring to be gone from the enclosures of land. The sea was vast, wild, and took you where it willed; and there lay its appeal to many. Axe in hand and first mate in tail, he whirled about and exited the brothel without a word more. The sun had not yet fully risen and the people had not been aroused from sleep; for they were a people who rose with the first light.

Once out on the streets, Spain picked up a hasty trot, his pace barely contained from a full-out child's sprint by Mamello's reserved gait. Many shops around these parts were selling fish. While the fisherman had not yet returned from their trips that morning, the unmistakable odor was still present; so much that it had become part of the air itself rather than just a smell that could be cleared. The walk to the main docks, thankfully, was not very lengthy at perhaps a distance of six blocks. It was near a chapel where sailors prayed to God before a journey; though it served no purpose beyond that. Originally, it had been constructed as a place for the unholy men of the sea to repent before being hanged or reconcile with Christianity and then face their fate. Either way, it ended with death for them and the chapel did not serve the purpose for which it was built. Antonio, having already prayed to God for an adventurous voyage, would have ignored it if it were not for the fact that it marked where he and Mamello were to cross to the docks.

The docks were fairly long and not overwhelmingly busy at this time; of what few people were about, most were fishermen, though the occasional guard or soldier was present. Thankfully, none were near Antonio's ship, though it appeared just like that of a merchant's. Truly, it was one, but a hijacked one, nonetheless.

"¡Vente, mi chico!" called one elderly man to his son, "You are much too slow to have this profession, we must hurry and open your shop _first._" The son, a man of perhaps thirty, rolled his eyes and replied,

"Padre, I know how to do my job. You only came because of a dream you had in the night time." Spain allowed himself a quiet grin at their conversation, and then hurried his pace to reach the end of the docks, where his ship was held. The hollow sound of his boots hitting the wood was familiar and filling to him; at last, he was in the domain to which he belonged. He did not go unrecognized once he got to the pier's end. From among the many crates of bullet casings, oat flour, and oranges popped a young man, barely beyond boyhood. He had to arrive on time, in the sense that he was always early. His rather cheerful disposition was reflected in his lighter brown, sun-bleached locks and rich smile that contrasted oddly with his smoke and puddle eyes. The diligent young man jumped over the boxes, gave Antonio and Mamello a respectful bow, then greeted them merrily,

"Morning, Comandante, Señor Mamello. What needs to be done?" He addressed more the African man than Spain; for they were closer in relationship and rank. Mind wandering, the Spanish man took a moment to observe the crates. As he'd noted before, there were oranges, bullet casings, and oat flour; but along with those were some barrels of fresh water and some of cannons. The money they had pillaged earlier in the year had bought them tea leaves, coffee beans, and sugar; few luxuries that no doubt would not last long. In the last final crates were gunpowder and dried meat; Antonio thought he recalled his enemy calling it jerky. Mamello replied to the young man, Alonso Del Rio, Spain thought he was named,

"If any others have arrived, go collect them. When you have found all that have already come, I will begin an inventory check. The rest of you can carry the crates and barrels you can as I go. Load the remainder on to the crane. When José is here, I'll have him man it." He did not bother sending a glance in the captain's direction; they had been through the same process so many times that the words came instinctively to the dark man's lips. As he was aware that everything would be taken care of, Antonio whirled about, allowing his coat to billow out with sea breeze behind him and approached the gangway that led to the ship's main deck. As he stepped from the ramp, he for but a moment ceased to feel emotions of any sort. As he strolled the perimeter of the vessel, he allowed his hand to trail behind him on the sleek railing, the slight squeak of oil and sweat on polished wood sliding along with him. The pads of his fingers in contact with it sent sparks slithering through his bones and tendons. He slackened his pace as he reached the stairs by the chartroom and then with exceeding deliberacy, climbed them, all his weight resting on each foot's sole in turn as he rocked near precariously on each step's edge. He was cautious not to let the blade of his axe leave a line of chipped wood on them. Once he reached the top, Spain was reluctant to part with the railing, as one would be to leave their veins where they stood and continue on without them. At last, though, he released it, only to be drawn by gravity to the center of the pilothouse. His eyes drifted shut as he extended his arm forward and with a gossamer caress, swirled his fingers about the helm. His body swayed with the lullaby of the ship as it bobbed gently with the rising tide. With each breath came the scent of oak and salt, which then swirled about until it hit the roof of his gaping mouth and steamed out, unified as one in the air.

He knew not for how long he stood; it felt as though it could have been mere minutes, though logic stated that it must have been much longer, for when he finally awoke from his trance, the ship was much busier. Many more of his crewmen had arrived at this point and had nearly completed the task of compiling all of the supplies in the cargo hold, it seemed. Some, such as Alonso and José, were now even hoisting the sails in preparation for embarking. Alonso had taken note of Antonio's awakening from his stupor and called down to his captain from one of the masts,

"Fair winds today, sir! Are we following seas as well?" Even from where he stood much farther below the other, Antonio could see a good breeze whipping the light brown strands of his hair. José glanced down from the masthead, tuning in to the captain's orders and Mamello was swiftly at Spain's side.

"Aye!" he shouted back over the distance, "though only at first!" Alonso gave a nod of acknowledgement and turned away, an act that was mirrored by José. He beckoned to his first mate to follow him as he made his way to the chart room just below the helm. The room, while not particularly spacious, was of a fair size. Windows brought in the only light, for there were no candles lit this early in the day. Maps were strewn about on a table in the center with various devices used to measure distance. It appeared a bit more disorganized than usual, what with cupboards carelessly thrown open; though it was of no matter. Antonio was certain that José must have just been searching for a map now that he was aware of the destination. It was, however, an oddity that his compass seemed to be missing. Spain did little more than frown, however, before continuing to Mamello, "After we are out of the harbor, we'll bear down and let the wind carry us out of the bay. We'll stay on that course for a while; then we'll bank north around Portugal and head straight for the Azores. I've heard of a number of unusual acquisitions there that I plan on getting my hands on." The African glanced towards the maps and calculated quickly in his head.

"About a half month's journey," he commented, one brow quirked above the other. "Not terribly long." He picked up a stray tool and dragged it delicately along the map's parchment surface, being cautious not to tear it. The point of it came to rest between the westernmost islands of Flores and Corvo, and then drifted to the smaller northern one. A fleeting memory was painted in his dark eyes, and though the event did not take place on this particular island, Spain knew that somehow, the doubt had been reignited.

"Mamello," the captain began assertively, "do not worry. You are far to valuable for me to kill you as I once thought I would and you are no longer recognized by your old captain. You have aged quite quickly, after all. Besides," he said, his words now developing a nonchalant air, "I will not allow him to slaughter you on the count of mutiny." For a moment, as Antonio regarded his first mate, he recognized the trembling cabin boy that had once belonged to his enemy and witnessed murder, betrayal, and abandonment in a few short minutes, at Spain's hand, no less. Quickly, he forced it out of himself and took on an air of certainty. The Spaniard took note of the change and commanded, "Issue orders to the crew to tell of our departure."

"Aye, aye, Comandante," he replied before swiftly making his way out of the chart room. Antonio listened briefly at the door for the African man's voice. When he discerned it from the others, it sounded with an air certainty and he forgot what misgivings he'd had. Standing there, absolutely still, he allowed himself with a content smile to be lulled once more by the ruckus of preparations for their departure.

_Too lazy to do translations. Google it. - Domingo P._


	5. Chapter 5

Their departure had not gone nearly as smoothly as the captain had intended. Following seas could very well be a dangerous business, and Antonio had been regretting his decision for a while as the boat tossed itself about and leaned far too steeply to the right and crashed into the coming wave, causing some of the men to stumble about and fall. Soon thereafter, however, the vessel evened itself and a fair wind carried them far from the harbor and captivity of land. This continued for many days; consequently, the crew's boredom festered under the open sky rapidly. Though he'd been through it many times, Spain was still thunderstruck at how alike his crew sounded to a pampered rich child not three days into their voyages. By all means, the Spaniard himself could feel it picking away at his very sun-bleached bones. He craved some form of action, any form, beyond the dank, sweat-scented fights between the crew members. It was unfortunate, really, how much the rest wanted to believe they were real, but after having been in many battles, it was painfully obvious how staged they were. People had even placed bets beforehand. Perhaps a third into their journey were their prayers finally answered. Mamello had been keeping a careful eye on their inventory without the knowledge of the crew. This job was mostly to keep track of the water stores; but the man had made a most interesting find.

"The oranges are going missing?" Antonio asked, somewhat skeptical of his first mate's caution. He had requested the dark-skinned man to keep track of the water and did not think that he'd go so far as to count the oranges in their inventory.

"Aye," Mamello replied seriously, "the oranges. I was unconcerned at first as well, but I noticed that a full row had been depleted between when I checked the stores at midnight and when I returned a few hours later." He glanced about the chart room where he had chosen to confront the captain about the sudden fruit shortage and moved slightly closer. In a lower voice, he continued, "I do not believe the crew are thieves, but I wonder if we may have a stowaway." Antonio huffed:

"This ship was picked over twice in search of stowaways! You could not possibly be suggesting that after such careful work - _my _own careful work included - there is a little dirty thief hiding in my ship!" Somewhat irate, he did as his first mate requested, calling the crew to attention. They converged on the main deck and Antonio addressed them from the elevated one above, the quarter deck. After calling to them, they were quick to gather, most hopping up from where they snoozed against the masts while the others scrambled down from they were inspecting the sails or keeping an eye out for land.

"There have been speculations," he began in a raised tone so that they may hear him, "that we have a stowaway on board." To this, some, such as Alonso, demonstrated shock that their captain had missed such a thing. Others raised their brows, and a select few snickered at the predicament. To these, Spain continued irritably: "It is no laughing matter. Along with fruits to keep scurvy away, water has been going missing, which as you all know is a resource we cannot spare. José, inspect the front corners of the orlop deck and the stores. Isidoro, the galley and then the brig. Alvaro, check near the magazine. The rest of you continue your duties as usual. That is all." Antonio dismissed them with a flourish of his scarlet yet sun-faded coat as he spun and ascended the steps to the helm at the sterncastle deck. He'd ordered José to search the same area that he himself had before ransacked sloppily for prisoners. With an inward flinch, he recalled that he had been careless, making quite the ruckus. To soothe himself, Antonio shouldered some of the blame onto the crew. After all, if their stowaway was located in the cargo hold or around the stores, it would have been the crew's own stupidity keeping them from discovering their little sneak in the area that was their living quarters by night.

After the crew dispersed, the ship was abuzz with questions as to just who the stowaway might be and if there was more than one. As the wind was blowing strong in the direction of the Azores and no steering was needed, Spain amused himself with listening to these rumors. As the day wore on, they grew wilder and more outlandish, ranging from fabled sirens playing a little trick to the great English Captain Kirkland himself, whose feud with their captain was no secret. Spain chuckled at this one, coming from the cheery Alonso who was attempting to convince his friends among the crew that he was right. What a sight it would be, the damned Englishman walking directly into his enemy's claws, into the thick blade of his axe.

Soon thereafter, Mamello strode up the steps to the helm with information about the stowaway, Antonio suspected. He turned to the man, about to ask about this, when his first mate cut him off.

"You heard Del Rio's proposal?" he interrogated in a serious and low tone, staring unwaveringly at his captain. In response, Antonio gave a hearty laugh.

"Now, Mamello," he began in an incredulous tone, "you could not possibly believe that Kirkland would be so stupid as to come aboard my ship and think that he would remain undetected?" The idea itself was ludicrous and everyone thought so, which perhaps was why there was so much burly laughter coming from those that Alonso was trying so desperately to convince. Mamello shook his head in reply, denying such a thought with impatience.

"Of course not, though I would not put it past him to endanger a hired spy." He spoke cautiously and deliberately, as though to stretch the importance of what he was saying while remaining simple for the captain's sake. This did not help poor Antonio, however, who was still quite dumbstruck by the notion. It took him a number of rapid heartbeats to make sense of it. England could very well do such a thing and it was no lie to say he and his citizens were rather gifted in the art of espionage. It was a dirty trick, to infiltrate the ship of another instead of face them with the open warfare of the seas. With this, his confusion began to boil into an utter loathing. The empire disguised piracy as "privateering", as a means to both attack other nations such as himself and win the heart of his government, and through that, avoided any possibility of arrest. He would relish the opportunity to launch an ambush right as the Azores came into view and joy was instilled in the crew, turning a festive occasion into a horribly somber one, both costing Spain a fortune to replace the dead members of his crew, and hindering him with his injured ones. His face darkening significantly as cheer was swept off of it, the captain commanded:

"Search the ship over again, in your very own quarters, station day and night patrols if you must _but find that fugitive!"_

_ I am terribly sorry for how long this chapter took. I do hope you'll forgive me. Also not my best work, I'm positive, another very forced chapter. It should start running much more smoothly after this one, I hope. It's just one of those chapters that goes about telling the actions more than anything else. Ahh, I suppose those always pop up now and again. Thank you for reading, especially if you've still stuck with it. – Domingo P._


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